


varmint's teeth cut deep

by Ratchester



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Gen, Rats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratchester/pseuds/Ratchester
Summary: Hunger emboldens the rats.Prompted by@terror_exe: i put the rats in the death of a friend... and John Irving is watching you
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey & Lt John Irving, Cornelius Hickey & Magnus Manson, Lt John Irving & Sgt Solomon Tozer, Pte William Heather & Sgt Solomon Tozer
Kudos: 4
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	varmint's teeth cut deep

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to E., who said that I should write something genuine to me, whatever that happens to be. Dear frog, I hope that this will keep your patience until I finish the one that I owe you.

The rats were growing bold. They did not scatter to the beat of the sailors’ feat, not surrendered the ropes held by their hard-wearing teeth. The men drew together in their fear, away from the scuttering in the corners. Not long ago, one of the Privates was bitten in his sleep.

How soft and pink were the Private’s fingers, compared to sacks of weevil-flour — Compared to the meat-stocks that were dead and dried uncountable generations before this one was alive, to the lean things that the victors recycle. A career soldier’s callused knuckle, scarred by the ill-firing of a musket, makes for the beginning of a banquet — at least deserving of a try.

Work on the Terror has ground to a halt beside clockwork feedings and laundry. Ship caulked, sails stored, floors waxed and polished in boredom. Men turn to books, having bored of their singing, and those that can’t, to learn their letters. A fight nearly broke out of late over the seaman Manson’s mouthing of the words to _The Ratcatcher’s Daughter_ … It did not come to more, the first stopped like a stay of execution by the hand of the caulker Hickey. All this to drown out the echoes of the Private screaming. There’s not a man alive that sleeps well in his bed or hammock. Every man knows to keep still — when one man startles, more are quick to follow.

Sergeant Tozer beat the beast down with a broom, crushing its snout to blood. All present were relieved, but only ‘til the moment that they understood that the stain of arterial red — that now made a most charming moustachio — need not have come from the one that so gallantly wore it. When the realisation came, they shuddered as one. This was the first time a rat had touched a man ensouled and breathing.

The ship was awash in whispers. Each kept to his own ranks, turning his back to those deemed unlike him, to those that had been too friendly to the ones without. Those unlike themselves could not be trusted — it seemed, if you cannot break bread with one or expect him to share of his fancies, what right does he have to take a pick of your thoughts? They quieted, but disobeyed no orders — truth be told, because there were so few to be had or given. A man stroked his beard and ceased his murmuring, elbowing his shipmate in the chest. Whatever followed could not be too pretty.

The bite was seen to be a serious one. The varmint’s teeth had cut deep through the skin, by its removal tearing out the meat. Though washed and mended as soon as the trouble quieted, the Private was overtaken by a fever. The man’s name was Heather, a genial and worthy fellow, or so he had been… The doctors had convened and were of one mind, that in the case that he survive “he should be no better than an invalid”, and perhaps it should be kinder if… The Sergeant, a personal friend, for this reason kept to his side. It is not known that he believed it, but he opposed it with the weight of his rank and the presence of his body and mind: One of his hands lay on the one bandaged so, and the other on the pommel of his ceremonial sword.

For all their personal misgivings, the sailors were snickering behind his back. Had ‘e enough shot to take an army of rats, or would he scramble after them like a kitchen slavey? God forbid, some kind of wife?

They laughed to hide their fears away from themselves and each other. One thing they knew too well. When it came to that, he would sooner shoot them dead than shoot the head of the King of Rats.

* * *

The hunger took the fear out of the rats. They were biting at the rust-red edges of the cans, now. Third Lieutenant John Irving counted them, having separated those that had ruptured or been otherwise rendered unusable. There was nothing to fear here — these were mere animals, and once more important issues were settled, could be poisoned or killed by other means. The posed comparatively small danger next to the reactions they inspired among the men, the stoking of old and new enmities.

Hickey and Manson did well together separating the stock. This was the key to their good behaviour. One kept calm and receiving clear direction would do as he was told. The other one, careful that he be well thought of, did decent work so long as eyes were on him. One of them pacified the other, and both wished to impress him in his own private way, genuine or expedient it did not matter.

He would have wished to be alone, but to carry the contents of these crates like a common docker would not have done for one in his position, and God forbid he slip and herniate a disk — here away from the comforts of family of bed, of sustenance, of sunlight… Manson was strong for the three of them, while Hickey counted the tins. Irving had him count them twice, the second round following the numbering of them with his eyes.

It hadn’t been long since they had started, but the numbers were already telling. Manson lumbered on, fixated on the current task, but Hickey’s look met him with an equal tension, the natural lines of his forehead and his cheeks making deep furrows on those features of usual geniality. The man lacked in wisdom, this much was known, but he could look at the piles and add two and two. And this was still before the calculation of the cans unaccounted for, taken away for the secret gorging of the betrayers sleeping soundly a quarter over.

The rats scampered loudly all around them, only a few metres away now. Distress made Manson’s face droop, and the muscles of his back stiffen. Here they were, in the cool and darkness of the hold. Work and fright made the air thin between the real and the imaginary menaces… But Hickey laid a hand on his arm, pulling him away from the precipice to face their duties. _All is well, but we must not stop yet._

At a corner’s bend, a rat jumped out — There was a yell, and Manson fell, knocking his head out with a beam. There was no time for Irving’s intervention, and no need either. Hickey came out intact but for the bloodying of his shoes.

* * *

There were talks of the vermin coming up to the kitchens while the men were asleep. As a consequence, Sergeant Tozer slept in the sickbay every night, and when he heard of Hickey’s ratting feat, clapped a hand on his narrow shoulder. But when he learned that Manson was stitched and soon to recover, a green-sick shade fell on his mien. Heather was not long for this world, all the signs were here to say.

Since the loss of Sir John, they had been without a chaplain. With Captain Crozier deep in his drinks, Irving had thought this for the better, though he would not say it out loud and find himself at the juncture of a mutiny. This was going to be one of the hardest tasks yet — having made himself so distant and unapproachable by virtue of his rank and exacting demeanour. His taking of the mantle had been a long time coming and for near two years he had avoided it. But no longer would he turn his back on it when a person like him was the one most needed.

The Sergeant had no love for him or any of his class, and for good reason. It was because of this that he should resolve to do well, and to do what was difficult before what was easy. He held his hands together, scratching the small cut on the flat of his left hand. It had only entered his mind, and he prayed that he would not botch it.

“Sergeant Tozer, I hope that I am not intruding, but there is something I must ask of you. I wish that we could pray together for William. Can we make it so?”


End file.
